We were resting in the shade at the rear of the Santiago Apóstal Parish ruins when a man approached us. His story took time to tell. He was a Venezuelan refugee along with his wife and four daughters. They had made it as far as Costa Rica, but it took 5,000 colones to keep a roof over his family’s head each night. “Selling candy is not beneath me,” he said, and he came out every day to do so until he sold 5,000 colones worth. He said if the Costa Rican government decides he isn’t useful to society, he will be deported to Venezuela and that would mean execution for him. He was a kind, humble man. Tears sprung to my eyes as he walked away, as I wondered what would happen to him and his family.